The doctor laughed. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. ” “You are very good, Mr. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered.
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